Of Scarves and Silence
by boldlikeblack
Summary: Sherlock prefers to work in silence.


**Title**: Of Scarves and Silence

**Fandom:** Merlock (Merlin/Sherlock)

**Pairings:** Merlin/Sherlock, Merthur, Sherlock/John

**Rating:** M

**Spoilers:** A Study in Pink (Sherlock : 1x1), The Crystal Cave (Merlin: 3x5)

**Disclaimer: ** I don't own Merlin or Sherlock. I should think that would be clear.

**A/N:** For caveredlund-, who encouraged my Merlock madness. Inspired by this: carveredlund- . tumblr . com / post / 5761163645 (take out the spaces) [Dual posted to my LJ, autumnnerd)

**-SH-**

Sherlock has always preferred silence. He finds it much easier to think without the constant cacophony of the average buzzing around his head like so many insects.

He's never preferred silence more than at this moment, when Merlin's eyes shine gold in the dark and he bites down, hard, on Sherlock's favourite scarf to stifle his moans as Sherlock nips at the rim of his navel. The room is ensorcelled of course, so that no sound can escape, but Sherlock does appreciate Merlin's efforts to keep from becoming a distraction.

As if he isn't a distraction simply by virtue of his anachronistic existence.

Sherlock assesses the way that Merlin's hips surge forward as he drags his tongue over the crest of Merlin's pelvis and adds more pressure on the next pass, making Merlin pull the scarf taught against his teeth. Pleased, Sherlock places his lips on the crest and sucks hard enough to bruise. Merlin bucks painfully against Sherlock's mouth, mumbling softly into the scarf.

"Hush," Sherlock orders sternly.

Merlin is silent as Sherlock follows the line of hair stretching from Merlin's navel to his cock with his teeth and tongue, leaving Merlin shaking and straining to keep quiet. Smirking into Merlin's skin, Sherlock veers to the left, kissing a path down Merlin's inner thigh. Merlin whimpers his disappointment into the scarf and Sherlock clicks his tongue before giving his lover a sound slap on his other thigh to drive his point home. As if he would ever be so obvious.

He draws a precise, wet path from Merlin's inner thigh to the back of his knee. Merlin, ever willing to oblige, lets his legs fall open further, allowing Sherlock to begin his assault on the tender skin behind Merlin's knee. It's likely that Merlin will turn out to be ticklish here, as he is under his arms and on the soles of his feet, but Sherlock prefers hard evidence to hypotheses.

Sherlock sucks at the skin, waiting for Merlin to squirm away and is pleasantly surprised when Merlin wriggles into the blankets and presses his leg more firmly to Sherlock's lips. More surprising still is the desperate way Merlin threads his pale fingers into Sherlock's hair and pushes Sherlock's face into his skin. Sherlock renews his attack, mapping each centimeter in hopes of discovering all the spots that make Merlin quiver and buck.

Merlin's eye blaze as Sherlock spares him a satisfied smirk. He's so close to the edge already, brimming with power, and Sherlock hasn't even touched his cock yet. Merlin's magic crackles and the hairs on his arms stand up with the charge. Sherlock simply cannot wait to see what happens when Merlin lets go.

Last time Sherlock pushed him to his peak, with hard strokes and two slick fingers pressed firmly against the sorcerer's prostate, Merlin had created a miniature lightning storm over their heads. It was indescribably beautiful, electricity arching purple and blue across the roof, completely exhilarating and all together unsettling at once. Damned if Sherlock didn't love every moment of it.

Sherlock finds that he cannot wait any longer. He closes his mouth around Merlin and greedily swallows him down. Merlin bucks and tears the scarf in two, keening wildly. He pants and arcs and, when Sherlock takes his cock deep into his throat and swallows around it, calls Sherlock's name as if it is the only word he knows.

He's beautiful when he's like this, consumed by pleasure with golden eyes and sweat-slick skin. He is the most pure form of himself and Sherlock is the only witness. It makes Sherlock feel…something…to be privy to this side of Merlin. He'll never speak it aloud, but this is the Merlin he wants to keep, this being of raw energy, fallen out of time, shaped under Sherlock's hands with no thought to the Once and Future King snoring on the sofa in the sitting room. This Merlin is his and his alone and Sherlock needs to ferret out all of his secrets before he fades away.

Sherlock swallows again, squeezing the head of Merlin's cock in his throat, nearly choking with his enthusiasm. Merlin babbles, nonsense mostly, barely able to string more than a few syllables together. There are words, here and there, like 'more' and 'please' which spur Sherlock on until Merlin is ready to burst with it.

The air reeks of ozone, a common occurrence when Merlin is close. Sherlock twists his tongue just so and Merlin comes with a wordless cry, spilling down Sherlock's throat. Simultaneously, Merlin's magic surges forth and there is a horrendous crash. The headboard cracks in two and the bed, mattress and all, gives out beneath them, folding into a 'V' and depositing them both on the floor.

Merlin's other enchantment shatter as soundly as the bed and satisfaction wars with utter dismay as Sherlock swallows Merlin's come and tries to cover his nudity when Arthur comes barging into the room, with John just behind him. Arthur's nostrils flare as he takes in the sight before him, two pale, nearly naked men in a broken double bed, and Merlin dissolves into laughter, Arthur's Merlin once more.

John swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing curiously, and trudges back to bed, limping heavily. Arthur's lips press into a tight line and his eyes go cold as he requests that they be more discreet in future. Sherlock fights a smirk as Arthur turns on his heel, announcing his return to bed, and shuts the door forcefully behind him.

The bed is fixed with a flash of gold across Merlin's irises and Sherlock soon forgets the rest of the world.


End file.
